


Living a Teenage Dream (The Way You Turn Me On)

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Cheerleader Dean, Explicit Language, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Moving In Together, Non-Graphic Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 19:13:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3702749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean knocked on the door six times, three in a pair, just in case his friend was changing or sleeping. He’s made both mistakes in the past, and while Cas was an easygoing person and reassured him a thousand times over that he wasn’t in the wrong, he couldn’t help but feel like a trespasser on private property. </p>
<p>There was a fine line between friendship and romanticism, and Dean’s pretty sure he’s crossed it more times than any normal person should. </p>
<p>And just when he thought he couldn’t prove his point further, there was his best friend, splayed on his bed, doing some very intimate things with his body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Living a Teenage Dream (The Way You Turn Me On)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Nice Legs, Daisy Dukes, Makes Cas Go...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1670840) by [endstiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/endstiel/pseuds/endstiel). 



> Beta'd by the beautiful shalinabianca

Living a Teenage Dream (The Way You Turn Me On)

 

Dean Winchester wasn’t gay, but he was homeless. For years he and his good friend, part-time mechanic Benny Lafitte, were roommates. Then Benny settled down with his girlfriend, Andrea (like Andrea Tantaros from Outnumbered—the girl may have had some nasty views, but his fantasies about her were even nastier) and ever since he’s been a squatter. 

He’s met a few people along the path of life, including Charlie Bradbury and Cole Trenton. Dean’s typically not known for developing close intimate relationships with many people, but there were a few exempted from that clause. Charlie was one of them. Then Charlie moved to Lebanon to take care of her mom and as for Cole Trenton... let’s just say Dean was desperate. He learned to sleep with one eye open after he found unconscious pictures of him taped to a dartboard in his room. The dude looked like he was gonna eat him alive—and not the sexy kind. He hauled ass out of there in no time flat.

Which brings him to Plan D—and there was a solid chance it stood for “Dumbass”. Castiel Novak was his childhood best friend, his partner-in-crime, the Thelma to his Louise, the Starsky to his Hutch, the Bo to his Luke, the Legolas to his Aragorn, etcetera.

Castiel also happened to be the love of his life. 

Dean had it so bad even Uncle Martin, his father's deranged ex-Marine buddy, personally pulled him aside to ask if he took it up the ass—and that guy was higher than a kite.  
He had half a nerve to tell him it's better than shooting oxycodone for headaches, but his kid brother Sam was within earshot and he didn't feel like giving the birds and the bees talk, especially not when his primary interests were school and model airplanes.

Which, hello, brings him back to the gay thing. The notion hadn’t even passed his mind that he was gay or whatever until Freshman English when he was assigned a back table with a blue-eyed schoolboy. One morning during a riveting lecture on MLA formatting, Dean dropped his pencil and, being as gracious as anyone would’ve been, Cas bent under the table to retrieve it for him. Of course the damn thing had to fall under his seat, so the back of Castiel’s head ended up in perfect alignment with his crotch. And, as if the scenario couldn’t get any weirder, after a whole few seconds Cas craned his head, smiled, and asked, “Enjoying the view?” 

Dean laughed all the way to the bathroom.

He pushed all those thoughts behind him because now he was standing on the steps of apartment 302. He hadn’t seen his best friend since Obama took office, save for the occasional Skype call. Unsurprisingly, Castiel was an English prodigy who scored a full ride into Columbia three years into his high school career. 

It was hard, seeing as they were in a friendship that lasted longer than most marriages, but after an all-nighter with Rocky Road ice cream and multiple failed attempts at not crying into his respective carton, Dean was able to muster a proper goodbye (“My name better be in the footnotes when your first book gets published, jackass.”).

“Hey, assbutt!”

Dean turned his head, eyes crinkling at the sight of a messy-haired, twenty-something clad in Roadrunner pajama pants and one of Dean’s old ACDC shirts that somehow still fit him perfectly. “Hey, dickweed,” he said, dropping his duffle to wrap his arms around him. He still fit perfectly there, too. “How goes it, man?”

“Better now that you’re here,” he replied honestly, and thank the Almighty above that they both lingered a little too long with the hug because Dean was as red as a tomato. 

“Hungry?”

That caught his attention. “Always.”

***  
Dean wasn’t gay. Okay, so he liked to watch gay porn. It wasn’t any different from watching Dr. Sexy MD. (Shut up, Sam.) 

A wise man once told him that all pornography was a form of art. Even if that wise man was an older, senile version of him in some whacked-out, two a.m. daydreams. That’s what he gets for binging on Next Generation. 

The most alarming thing was that he wasn’t even using his own laptop. The one he had precariously placed on his lap was graciously loaned by Cas for the time being. As for WiFi, he was streaming from MrFizzles2.0 that, shockingly, had amazing reception. (Frequent visits to twelfth grade detention have really turned Dean into a decent hacker.) The only downside was that if the NSA ever decided to dig deep into the dude’s Google history, he would have a lot of explaining to do. 

Dean could handle clearing browsing history. What he couldn’t handle was explaining the X-rated version of Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure to his straight best friend.

He was about to climax when the hallway light clicked on and a figure emerged from the end. Just to illustrate, the loveseat was in direct view of Castiel’s door and naturally, between balancing the PC and other useful instruments, Dean’s hands were kinda full. Quickly, he minimized the evidence on the screen and tucked his lady parts inside his flannel PJs. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” asked Cas in a half-yawn, blinking away remnants of the sandman.

Dean crossed his legs. “Yeah, I uh—I guess I’m a little homesick s’all.”

"Mhmm, Dean, you do know we've been best friends for ten years, right?” he said, bowing his head reproachfully. “I've seen your dick more times than I can count. Remember Meg Masters?"

Dean remembered a little too well—Junior year, Anna Milton's house. Cas was harboring a huge crush for this second-year gothic senior. So huge that when she grinded against him during some God-awful Sex Pistols song, he was subjected to using one of Anna's spare bedrooms to relieve himself. Dean just happened to be in the right place at the right time (he swears up and down to this day he was just trying to find the bathroom) and lo and behold, there was Castiel Jr., smiling at him.

Except that that smile was meant for a prospective girlfriend, not his perverted best friend. "Y-yeah, course, I just—I’m really sorry. I mean, you eat here..."

“Are you kidding? I could retire with every metaphorical dime I’ve collected jacking off where you’re sitting,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Dean swallowed. All he could do was smile and nod like a bobble head. “So, who was it?”

Dean squinted to make sure he heard him right. “Hmm?”

“Jenna Jameson, Jesse Jane, Belladonna…?” Dean just gaped at him like a stoner after Mardi Gras. After another minute without a response, Cas scoffed, “Dean Winchester, you’ve lost your touch.”

“No, no—I just—none of the above,” he blurted. “Sorry, I think the insomnia’s getting to my head. I better get to bed before my eyes fall out of my head.”

Cas nodded warily, reaching for his laptop on the coffee table. “Alright, I’ll take this—”

“No!” he cried loud enough to wake the neighbors. Cas stilled the object in his hands. “I mean, I’ll take care of it. I don’t want you accidentally looking at old pictures of Lisa Braeden or anything.”

His friend’s eyes widened knowingly. “Ha! I knew it. She was pretty hot, but she wasn’t April.”

“Dude, April was three years your junior. You couldn’t tap that with a twelve-inch ruler.”

“A boy could dream,” he emphasized, practically shoving the computer into Dean’s chest with specified orders: “Burn the browsing history until nothing’s left but smoldering ash.” He waited, watching as he retreated back to his room with a singsong “Goodnight!” before opening the lid of the PC once more and clicking the big red ‘X’ on the top right-hand side of the page. 

Dean discovered, after skimming through myriad porn sites, that he wouldn’t have to worry about his history if he just used local files. He knew Cas hated the picture of him in hiked-up swim trunks and a backwards Royals cap. What Cas didn’t know was that it would prove to be useful later on.

God, he was so screwed.

***  
Dean wasn’t gay. He made this abundantly clear to Benny over the phone the following night and though he didn’t doubt him, he also wasn’t backing him up on it.

“Et tu, Benny?” he blasphemed. It wasn’t until after he quoted the infamous Julius Caesar line that he realized he also quoted the words of an alleged four-hundred-year-old bisexual. 

He could hear Benny’s smile when he said, “I’m not implyin’ anything, brother. All’s I’m saying ‘s that you’re awfully… touchy for a breeder, ‘specially when it comes t’ Cas.”

“We’ve been best friends since the Age of Ultron, I can afford to be touchy,” he defended.

“You guys were spoonin’ on the bleachers after graduation—spoonin’, man! And you weren’t even the Big Spoon!” There was amusement in his tone where there should’ve been prudence. Benny was the kind of friend that gave it to him straightforward, and while Dean admired him for that, he also couldn’t help but be particularly irritated by it, too. 

“Okay, Dr. Phil, you’ve made your point.”

“You know I love you, brother, but I can’t lie t’ you.”

There was a piercing beep on Dean’s end of the line and he switched over only to be put in a three-way call with Charlie. She had him on speaker judging by the static on her end. “What’s bitchin’ home skillet? I just passed a sign on the interstate that said Biggerson’s was doing free burgers with the purchase of a large milkshake. Four-twenty—mark the date. Huh, isn’t that peculiar…?”

“Charlie, thank God, my voice of reason. Benny’s on the other line. Tell him he’s crazy for suggesting that I’m in love with Cas.” If there was anyone who could talk shit, it was Charlie.

He heard the redhead sigh, then: “Benny, you’re crazy.”

“Thank you!”

“Tell Dean he needs to pull his head and his scrotum out of his ass and fess up to his boyfriend.”

Benny roared so loud he could’ve sworn the phone dropped. So this was it, the knives plunged into Dean’s back while his friends left him to dry out like a raisin. He swayed his head fiercely even though they couldn’t see. “I will kill both of you,” he mumbled through clenched teeth.

“Aw, that’s cute. Save the tenacity for the bedroom, though, brother.” It was Charlie’s turn to burst out laughing. The gangbanging ended when the phone made a rude click before being tossed onto the opposite couch where it belonged.

There was only one way to settle this matter. He would have to tackle the source.

***  
Seven Years Earlier

“Bend with your knees, Wincester!” 

“Wincester, that’s a good one, dude!”

“Hey, Wincester, what’s up with the camel toe?”

Dean drowned the trying voices of his peers in his brand-turned bathwater bottle. A sun baked and half-starved Dean Winchester wasn’t a happy Winchester, especially when his uniform was nothing short of Daisy Dukes and a thinly veiled blue and gold wife beater with the school’s choppy unicorn emblem plastered on the front. Don’t get him wrong, he loved cheerleading, but sometimes the al dente weather and physical demands outweighed the personal gain from the sport itself.

And, of course, there were the charlatans. Except while those assclowns were too busy cat calling and jacking off in the gymnasium hallway, the eighteen-year-old had girls practically thrown at his feet when he did so much as a cartwheel.

“Nice shorts.”

Dean bit back a laugh. While the freshman was in less conforming attire, his flag was sandwiched between his thighs while he trained his bangs into a pea-sized ponytail. “What was that, Fabio?”

“Winchester, there’s no playtime when you’re killing daytime!” Sam snapped his head to Coach Ferguson, who, judging by his stubby frame and beet-red face, wasn’t thrilled with his lineup this year.

The second-born turned to his brother, sighing, “Why am I his monkey?”

“Because you have chubby cheeks,” he cooed. Sam glared at him. “What? It’s cute.”

He proceeded to mutter how big of a fucking jerk Dean was all the way back to centerfield. Truth was he felt bad for the little dude. Here he was, braving through the last flag line practice of the year because he thought joining some kind of sport would get him with the in-crowd—even though that scene tended to follow Dean, aka Marlon Brando’s heir to the throne, if there ever was one.

Of course, Dean’s sympathy didn’t succeed a heart clutch and an “I love you, too, baby bro!” 

Minutes turned into hours, and soon he was packing his things and seeing a dark-haired figure emerge from the Science building. He had slung over one shoulder a weather-beaten backpack and a red hoodie draped over the other. Dean could barely make out the hand-me-down Continental in the boondocks when he barked, “Cas!” Then, when nothing came of it: “Hey, Dickweed!”

That stirred the geeky seventeen-year-old from his musings, but it wasn’t until pseudo-footballer Dean charged across the field and knocked the wind out of him that he had his full, undivided attention. Cas acknowledged him through stones bluer than the bluest blue, and it wasn’t long until he was the one straddling him with a shrewd smile. Dean often forgot he was the youngest of four brothers.

“Hey, assbutt.”

For the longest time they were just staring at each other like two love-struck teenagers. Cas was the first to break the oddly intimate scrutiny, lending his hand to help him to his feet. The cheerleader felt his face turn red as their foreheads touched during the exchange, and… nope, that was just sunburn.

“You wanna catch Star Trek later?” he asked a little too eagerly. “Consider it an early birthday treat.”

“In those?” the studious senior scoffed, signing to his cutoffs. 

Dean’s mouth cowered, and suddenly he was discomfited with his life choices, “I mean, I’ll change if…”

“Dean, I’m kidding,” Cas said, punching his arm. “You actually have nice legs. Like a ballerina.”

The cheerleader waggled his finger at him in mock-warning, “I’m no ballerina, Novak.” The other boy shed a smile and—okay, maybe he could be a ballerina just for that. He got more serious when he noticed Cas hadn’t answered his question: “I take it there’s something bigger than my thunder thighs that’s detaining you from mono-e-Romulan space action?” 

“Columbia’s a bitch, but it’s my dream school, you know?”

Dean nodded, because he does know. Despite his early acceptance, Dean knew his best friend still had a lot of paperwork to sift through. He wasn’t an English virtuoso or equipped at anything beyond fixing carburetors and double handsprings, but Dean did know what it was like to want something so bad it fucking hurts. “Does Columbia have a Biggerson’s?”

“Dean Winchester, are you bribing me?” he asked, crossing his arms. The older boy shrugged.

“Am I?” Dean tested, tilting his head. “Hmm, I guess we’ll find out when we’re chowing down a thick, juicy barbacoa burger topped with bacon and cheese and jalapeños on homegrown bread—”

“Alright, smartass, you’ve convinced me. Can we go before I pop a boner in front of the entire school?”

***  
Dean knocked on the door six times, three in a pair, just in case his friend was changing or sleeping. He’s made both mistakes in the past, and while Cas was an easygoing person and reassured him a thousand times over that he wasn’t in the wrong, he couldn’t help but feel like a trespasser on private property. 

There was a fine line between friendship and romanticism, and Dean’s pretty sure he’s crossed it more times than any normal person should. 

There was no immediate response to any of the knocks, so Dean took matters into his own hands. He opened the door open just enough to leave a crack of moonlight spilling through.

And just when he thought he couldn’t prove his point further, there was his best friend, splayed on his bed, doing some very intimate things with his body.

Don’t get him wrong, Dean’s banged his gong and got it on quite a few times. But this—this was the kind of thing fantasies were made of. His friend made a whole show out of it—music (Nine Inch Nails’ “Closer”, respectively and completely respectable), scented candles; the whole nine yards. And he was doing a pretty good job, if he did say so drawing from his three-person experience (unfortunately, not concurrently). 

Except Lisa, Lydia, and Suzy were take-charge kinds of girls. Cas was so surprisingly… submissive. 

Dean should walk out. This was wrong, he told himself, but then there were Cas's fingers, sliding dexterously from his damp chest to the waistband of his burgundy lace panties as he rocked his hips, mouth emitting some pretty delicious sounds, and oh, look who joined the party, Dean's hand came to palm his joy boy through his jeans. He could’ve sworn he heard his name a couple times, but it could just be his overactive imagination.

This was wrong in every sense of the matter, but why did it feel so right?

"Don't stop," incited a husky voice that definitely didn’t belong to Trent Reznor. 

Which meant Cas knew he was outside his doorway. The music, the candles, the touching—the whole spectacle was for his best friend: Painfully straight Castiel Novak was in love with his painfully bisexual best friend, Dean Winchester.

Dean was so lost in his naturally submissive nature that he hadn’t put that logicality together until after Cas dragged him in by his jeans, pressed their clad arousals together, and coaxed their mouth into an unexpectedly chaste kiss. 

Breathlessly, Dean returned the subtle action, careful not to lose the sweet, honey-like taste on his lips too early on. Though he obviously pictured this moment very differently, it was what he wanted so bad it fucking hurt.

That night he slept beside not his lover, but his best friend. It was the best sleep he’s had in years.

-END-


End file.
